


2287

by nimrodcracker



Series: a blinding flash [10]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Drabbles, F!SoSu/M!SoSu (Mentioned), Gen, Trauma, identity crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:42:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5460179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nimrodcracker/pseuds/nimrodcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Many things can change over the span of two centuries, she's noticed. And she doesn't always deal with them successfully.</p><p>(mainly character snippets; internal monologues)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dossier 037/A15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's built a profile on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UC = undercover

\---------- Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink --------  
Diamorella & Partners: Solving Problems, One Person at a Time

HIT LIST - DOSSIERS  
REF: 037/A15  
[LOG 37B - 26/9/75]

TARGET : UC Agent, District A-15  
HANDLER : Captain Andros Heinecker  
CLIENT : [REDACTED]  
PRIORITY : Code Charlie

[N/B: See LOG 37A for original documents]

She's listed as Adrián Valenti: definitely an alias because that ain't Russian. Fifth-gen immigrant, parents died in a car crash, sister was collateral damage in mob violence down at South End. No extended family recorded, so she's all alone by age seven. Perfect.

Grew up in a community home after with other orphans, did okay in school (rigged her marks, see LOG 37A). Signed on to the force when she turned eighteen. Seemed as if she took some law program at the same time; passed the bar in 2067 but held on to her badge. (Or did she? Law portfolio a possible cover identity.) 2068-2075 are the biggest blanks in her records; must be her UC days.

Still, we know what she did to our associates. She helped take down the Tolero Family; biggest distributer of chems downtown. Popping 'em triggered a gang war - all the other gangs wanted to claim Tolero's turf. Big news in 2070, remember?

All in all, tough lady to pin down. Splicer found zilch in federal databases, just scraps of early personal history. We're lucky there's any at all. Our informant's nosing around the precinct vault for service history.

REMARKS:  
This is the third contract for UC's in four months. I swear it's as if the blue shirts want us to eliminate their field agents for them. Told Switch to sniff around in the lion's den, just in case. World's going to shit these days. No harm watching our own asses.

 

\---------- Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink --------  
Diamorella & Partners: Solving Problems, One Person at a Time

HIT LIST - DOSSIERS  
REF: 037/A15  
[LOG 37C - 4/10/75]

TARGET : UC Agent, District A-15  
HANDLER : Captain Andros Heinecker  
CLIENT : [REDACTED]  
PRIORITY : Code Alpha

Our mole pulled through.

Lady's a killer like us. Only difference is who she takes orders from. Crack shot with a pistol and a hard-ass interrogator, before they dropped her into living hell of UC work.

They've sent her upstate and out of state before for cases. Ain't matter if they're Russian, Mexican or Chinese gangs. They all dealt in chems, so our lady's a regular in the chem circuits. Tolero wasn't her only big-name scalp, she had a hand in the Lexington fiasco too.

Last mission report is about her and her partner busting the Mondrogas, those whackjobs who peddled party drugs to schoolkids. Only she survived.

The report's sketchy though. Could be why our friends are after her.

Her file ends on 13/9/75 with a medical statement. They shipped off to the shrinks with an _enforcement_  order. (First medical recommendation was in 2073, but without the order). Either way, she's out of the force and that makes her vulnerable.

Could be a temporary retirement, so this needs to be quick. She's now priority number one.

REMARKS:  
What a waste. Lozas would've killed to induct her as a partner - bonus if she's one of those supersoldiers from that rumoured Soviet genetic program. Been hearing talk about a spike in Commie spies infiltrating the region. If she's one, then goddamn. Explains why her death's pegged at a few grand.

Or maybe she just pissed off some bigshot. The brass. Could even be the Feds. Who knows?

She has a heart condition. With her in therapy, it'll be simple - just grease her pharmacist to give modified medication. The kind that induces a heart attack.

R.Z. has contacts.

 

\---------- Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink --------  
Diamorella & Partners: Solving Problems, One Person at a Time

HIT LIST - DOSSIERS  
REF: 037/A15  
[LOG 37D - 24/10/75]

TARGET : UC Agent, District A-15  
HANDLER : Captain Andros Heinecker  
CLIENT : [REDACTED]  
PRIORITY : N/A.

Contract's been retracted. Client didn't bother explaining.

Don't think about going after her. Even P can't pull your asses out of the fire if you do.

Feds were involved, still are. And they said she's to be left alone. 

REMARKS:  
Dossier 037/A15 closed. Scheduled for automated encryption and transfer to internal system archive on 30/10/75.

 

\---------- Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink --------  
Diamorella & Partners: Solving Problems, One Person at a Time

USER: anonymous  
SESSION: 26/10/75 - 02:56:78 AM

[CMDPRMPT]

run://copy -037/A15 to E:  
LOG: DATA CLUSTER "037/A15" COPIED TO EXTERNAL DRIVE "E:"

run://delete -log 37  
LOG: DATA ENTRY "log 37" DELETED

run://delete -037/A15  
LOG: DATA CLUSTER "037/A15" DELETED

run://delete -loghist user: anonymous  
LOG: LOGIN HISTORY USER "anonymous" DELETED

run://shutdown  
LOG: TERMINAL POWERING OFF

\-------------------------------------------------------------


	2. like clockwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she shuts down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leo's my male SoSu, by the way.

Some scars never heal.

A year since she last held a pistol, and it still felt right.

(A year, or two hundred and eleven?)

She's at a wrecked train stop, scavenging for supplies. Leo's dead and Shaun's gone, so there's only one mouth to feed. One box of centuries-old Sugar Bombs will last her two days, maybe three. Poisons her with rads too, she's come to realise, but it's familiar boxes she still searches for, these remnants of a recent past (yesterday?) that disappeared in a blinding flash.

She's many things now: aimless, grieving, traumatised, but she's _not_  incapable. As long as there's breath in her lungs, she is _not_  helpless.

Something growls behind her. Her pistol's out in a blink, finger on the trigger. One, two, three. The ghoul's down, innards splattered all over her shirt. Easy.

Ten more to go.

She's still a crack shot with a pistol. Sometimes, bloated flies the size of pigeons will ambush her in sparse woodland. She'll dodge and whirl, but one, two, three, and they'll fall like the insects they are. One bullet, one kill.

She'd always wanted to see who was the better shot: Leo, the grizzled war veteran, or herself, the cop with a degree. When he returned from active service, they had it planned: on Halloween night, the Forsyths would come over, help Codsworth babysit Shaun. It'd leave them free to sneak into pistol range of her office.

Then, he was shot in front of her eyes, while cryo clutched her limbs tight.

She needed to be this. Years shadowing Boston's underground drug circuits had demanded stoic, unflinching duty: a high price, paid for in blood and crushed optimism. Bullet grazes or twisted ankles healed, but her mind didn't - _couldn't_. Where physical hurt tore skin, emotional ones crawled deep into her bones. Like grit in her boots, like shrapnel in skin. Always there, never to leave.

So she shut down.

Dysphoria was no stranger - it was change, but it was constant.

She was a felon, she was an officer. She was a friend, she was a traitor. She was Adrián Valenti, she was Marianne Lee - or Antoine or Jacquino or maybe Declan Carnegie. Swapping personas like flipping switches, she was nothing and she was everything.

Her greatest fear was forgetting her name: who she was, who she _is_. The woman beneath the fiction.

And in a world so different from before, so little resonated with her she wondered if she was even real.

Hell had many forms, faith had taught her, and Scollay Square was one. Plenty happened on those streets, but only one kind stayed fresh in her mind, all else sinking in the quicksand of time.

In those darkened alleys, physical harm wasn't the worst these bastards could do to women. But for the sake of maintaining her cover, she had to walk away.

Centuries later, they still think little of her kind. These trash, the scourge of the wasteland. Stared at her curves, and not her hands - hands that have strangled, hands that have mangled.

It felt like things hadn't changed since the bombs. The scum lining the soles of humanity's boots still existed. Once, they were criminals, now they're raiders. Two letters less, but two times more on the scale of barbarity.

They'd drag her to their camp, sneering and leering like the filth they were. _Harmless little flower,_  they said. _A pretty face like that wouldn't have touched a gun before._

Hours later, she was the one left laughing, having slaughtered them all with the pistol they didn't think to confiscate.

She still lost in how they'd pawed at her before, though. Ran their grubby hands over her skin, every touch like burning coal, so different - _repulsive_  - from Leo's.

So she shut down.

Back when she still served, her psych evals were commendable. Compatriots praised her steady hand and rock-solid composure - but the psych evals didn't prepare her for this.

They didn't prepare for the time when screwdrivers were more useful a weapon than a tool. When cars were as safe as untriggered grenades. When _fridges_  provided more protection than a defensible ruin.

Every second spent evaluating her surroundings. Every moment spent waiting for threats to jump out at her. Every breath marking the seconds she had before a radstorm blew in. Hypervigilance wasn't healthy, but these details stuck out in her mind. Calculating, analysing, interpreting so _constantly_  her brain drowned in the unceasing torrent of information.

Back before the bombs, a house was where she could unwind. Feel safe. Where she didn't have to run a tripwire behind the door.

Now, houses weren't homes anymore, just rotting timber. Waiting to entomb those who sought refuge, crashing down like a house of cards. 

So she shut down. Day in, day out.

Raiders, monsters, synths. One, two, three, and they all fall with holes in their chest.

 

She

 

_shuts_

 

down.

 

Some scars never heal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i'm afraid of shutting down tonight_  
>  _yeah i've got this feeling deep inside_  
>  _no matter how hard i try_  
>  _i don't think i will make it through the night_  
>  ([~](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qghfrQZfOdo))  
> 


	3. penumbra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't need a memory lounger to take a trip down memory lane.

Neon lights, stale piss and the thick sweetness of fermented drink.

'twas how she remembered Scollay Square, more notoriously known as Boston's red-light district. Here, drug circles and extortion rings hid in plain sight beneath garish technicolour.

They called it Goodneighbour now, but names couldn't take away the heady scent of vice etched into its very walls. Freedom was its tagline, but anarchy was its whispered undertone.

(too many. She's seen too many, too much to think that freedom didn't have strings looped around its letters)

But by God, did she _crave_  that. The maddening rush, the decadence. Of blood surging in her ears, and hairs standing on end. Many a thing happened behind ramshackle wood doors, and every word spoken here masked a world of meaning.

If Diamond City was uprightness personified, then Goodneighbour was primality. The part of her that lurked beneath sweet smiles and feminine grace. 'twas a crutch she clung to with white-knuckled hands, and she refused to let go. Old habits were familiar, the wasteland wasn't, and why the _heck_  would she discard something so useful?

(it'd eat her alive, this rage, like ravens on carcass. But there was no flesh left on her bones, all semblance of soul picked clean when she left the vault, so what difference would it make? )

She didn't walk down the cobbled streets of town when light illuminated her steps. No, she _stalked_  under the cover of darkness, figure melding with the silhouettes cast against brick walls. Nary a sound she made, as she ghosted through town in search of her mark.

Didn't matter if she was just Adrián Valenti, or the Silver Shroud. Names were chains, identity a millstone. Worth no more than the Pre-War dollars in her pockets.

(that's what she told herself, anyway, words echoing so loudly in her head)  
  
Back then, this was what she did too. Being another face In the crowd, another woman in a den of vice. They overlook her, see her as _just_  another dealer, so they let her pass.  
  
For three whole years, she lingered in Boston's black heart, and they knew no better. And in three whole years, with the help of others like her, Boston's black heart beat a little less.

In places like these, there are often smiles in the dark.

She smiled back, teeth and all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> penumbra (noun); the partially shaded outer region of the shadow cast by an opaque object


	4. liminality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn't like the Institute one bit.

_Pretend._

It's a game she's played countless times, being somebody she isn't in order to sell the lie.

_Lies._

She and Deacon are fast friends because they speak in tongue. Stories and half-truths spilling from their lips like a leaking faucet, frankness and evasion dripping from every word.

She sees through his lies in a heartbeat, and so does he. But they leave them be, drape them round each other's shoulders because it is what they are.

Adrián Valenti: A Spanish name, back when nations and ethnicities still meant something. But she wasn't born Spanish.

_Agent._

Her weakness is the penchant for subtlety; the knife in the dark. She is the fissure in the cornerstone, the crack in the glass, and she relishes sending institutions crashing down with the barest of movements.

There is a thrill in being insignificantly vital, and she does it so well.

Strolling through the Institute, it takes every shred of patience in her soul to keep herself together. The stagnant chill and hint of antiseptic burn through her strung-together composure like chemical fire, and she wonders how much more she can take before her finger fractures from firing her pistol too much, too fast.

But those are her feelings. They're habitually folded up and tucked into a little box in her mind, just like old clothes that no longer fit. Old idiosyncrasies, hardcoded as instinct through repetition.

It's precisely why she can still smile, even when her hand itches for her pistol. She spins tales in the heads of these scientists: fabricating a woman approving of benevolent dictatorship, a believer in humanity's infallibility and the peerlessness of science. They lap it all up while she pries secrets from their heads with slippery words.

As for Father? Some foolishly sentimental part of her still yearns for the connection she's been denied with him, no matter that he's everything she spits on. But when she classifies him as another 'them', it's suddenly easier to despise him.

She prefers it that way.

They think they have her. They think she wants in. Redefining the wasteland, one person at a time - with perfection.

But she leaves with Patriot's request in her mind, and the FEV cure in her sling bag.


End file.
